


nothing save the limit of our sight

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is eternal, and love is immortal,<br/>and death is only a horizon;<br/>and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing save the limit of our sight

Cook is pretty sure his house is fucking haunted.

He can't explain it (not without sounding like he's out of his damn mind) but there's something... something _weird_ about it. He hears noises at night, sees shadows out of the corner of his eye, swears he can feel the weight of someone's gaze on him when there's no one else in the house.

And maybe he could blame all of that on new-house jitters or something, being on his own in an unfamiliar place. The house is settling at night, his mind's playing tricks on him, the only thing that's looking at him is Dublin. There, case solved.

But that's not it. There's a room in his house, a room that the previous occupants had left untouched. He thinks it must have been some kind of music room, if the sleek baby grand by the huge bay windows is anything to go by. He'd been amazed to see it there, the first day he'd looked at the house. He'd asked the real estate agent about it, why the family who'd lived there hadn't taken it (or hell, why someone else hadn't just taken the thing and sold it), but he hadn't really gotten an answer. The agent (her name was Brooke) had just rattled off some excuse.

 _"The family just... couldn't hold on to it."_ She'd said, and it'd been strange, the look on her face. Almost sad. _"Everyone around here, well. We knew them, you know? Didn't feel right to remove it."_ And she'd looked uncomfortable just relating that to him.

He hadn't understood it at the time, hadn't really given much thought to it at all. He'd just been glad to get the papers signed and get all of his stuff moved in.

It's a beautiful house. Whoever had lived there before him had definitely kept it well-cared for. The living room was open and sunny, the kitchen huge and airy off to the side. There was the den (where the piano sat) and a half bath downstairs. Upstairs were three bedrooms, a bathroom, the rooms all moderately sized. The walls were a cherry red wood, gave the house a warm, welcoming feeling.

 _"Must have been a big family."_ he'd thought, seeing it all for the first time. It just looked like the kind of house one should raise a bunch of kids in, warm and open (not exactly the most well-suited for one single guy and his dog, but.)

He'd had to buy it, couldn't really explain why. It didn't make much sense (to his parents, his siblings, not even to him really.) After all, he didn't need all the space, probably didn't even have enough junk to fill it with (wasn't like he was planning on starting a family anytime soon himself, anyway). There'd just been something about it, something about its warm walls, its cheery atmosphere, something that had made up his mind for him.

So, he'd given in, told Brooke he'd take it. She'd looked almost relieved as he'd signed the papers (a little apprehensive, too, though he wasn't sure why. Maybe it had something to do with his torn jeans and scruffy appearance; he wasn't exactly the picture of suburban purity here).

But she'd shaken his hand, told him good luck (looked like she actually _meant_ it, too) and been on her way.

Cook had immediately roped his brother and his friends into helping him lug down all of his stuff from the city (and the shitty apartment he'd been living in for the past few years). Neal and Andy had agreed readily enough (once he'd promised them beer afterward, of course), but Andrew had whined the entire time.

 _"I just don't get why you're moving **here** , of all places!_ he'd said, staring at the boxes (what seemed like hundreds to Cook, lord knows he wouldn't get any help _unpacking_ it all) strewn across the living room floor. _"I mean, I get that the city can be claustrophobic or some shit, and that you can work just as well here as anywhere else, but man, seriously? For fuck's sake, the only thing this place is missing is the white picket fence and 2.5 kids."_

Cook had ignored him, figured Drew would learn to love the house sooner or later. Besides, he _needed_ this, needed the wide open space (even with all of it's cliche suburbaness), the time to slow down, take things easy, de-stress. He wasn't going to be able to do that in the city.

And it was great, the first few weeks. It took a while to get everything unpacked (he'd had no help, just like he'd figured) but it was kind of satisfying, in a way, to see the empty house gradually filling with his stuff, his furniture in the living room, his bed in the master bedroom, his guitars in the den.

He'd been a little hesitant about that last one. It felt kind of like he was intruding, invading someone else's privacy. He couldn't find it within himself to even move the piano; it didn't feel right, somehow, though he couldn't explain why.

He'd thought, though, that once his stuff was cluttering the room the baby grand would be some kind of eyesore, that it wouldn't fit in with his records and his guitars and his music. He'd been pleasantly surprised (and a little freaked, honestly; there was still something about the sleek, dusty instrument that rubbed him the wrong way) to see that, instead of cluttering up the room or making it seem less _his_ and more, well, more whoever had lived here before, the piano actually... fit, in a way. It looked comfortable surrounded by his guitars, even looked a little more approachable. Not so... abandoned.

Which was stupid, of course. It was just a dusty, unused piano that someone had left behind, after all. Nothing more, nothing less, but Cook kept it where it was.

The strange things didn't actually start happening until a few weeks after he'd moved in. He remembered it all starting on a weekend, late at night. He'd been at work the entire day, was tired and strung out after the long drive (his graphic design firm was in the city, and though he could usually get all of his work done at home he'd had a meeting that he'd had to conduct there in person). He'd been lying on the sofa, television set to a comfortable buzz in his ears, Dublin snoozing at his feet, when he'd heard it.

Music. Or what sounded like music. Tiny, tinkling notes. They were faint, but Cook could hear them. He peered blearily at the television, saw the late night infomercial playing and thought, _That can't be it._ He'd almost rolled off the couch in his attempt to get up, Dublin yelping awake at the sudden movement. The music sounded like it was coming from the den.

He'd stumbled his way down the hall half-asleep, following the notes with single-mindedness. The den was dark when he got there, the curtains over the windows drawn shut (which he'd done before he left). He'd switched on the light and there'd been nothing, not a single trace of anything in the room at all. He'd grumbled about his tired mind playing tricks on him, resolved to just forgot about it and collapse into bed.

But he stilled, at the threshold. Hesitated for a moment. The piano was sitting in its usual spot, silent, still covered with a fine layer of dust. Cook thought about cleaning it, finding out what it must have looked like, shiny and brand new, warm from the fingers of family members gathered round, singing, playing music.

Before he knew what he was doing his fingers were trailing over the surface, smearing the dust and grit that had accumulated there over the years. The keys had been bare, the lid open; he remembered, thought, _I didn't leave them like this..._.

And then he'd taken a closer look at the ivory keys, seen the tiny, almost unnoticeable smudges in the dust. Fingerprints.

He'd frozen, looking at them, felt like the temperature had just plummeted ten degrees. He'd slammed the lid down and left the room, almost squished Dublin against his chest as he'd grabbed him and taken them both upstairs.

 _I'm imagining things_ , he'd thought, collapsing onto his bed face first (he'd locked the door, though, didn't let himself think of why). He'd gone to sleep that night with the uncomfortable feeling that someone was watching him, and woke up hardly remembering a thing.

It hadn't stopped there, though. There had been more nights like that one, nights where he'd hear music (always, always while he was on the verge of sleep, so that when he woke up he'd wonder if it had all just been a dream), moments where he'd be in the den, strumming idly at one of his guitars, and it felt like someone else was there, like someone else was sitting with him, listening to him play.

He didn't spare much thought to it (didn't _let_ himself, because goddamn, sometimes he felt like he was going _crazy_ ) until a few nights later.

He wasn't tired, wasn't disoriented. Cook was wide awake, home a little late after a night out with the guys (he'd tried to get Neal and Andy to stay, thought maybe if there were more people in the house nothing strange would happen; the fuckers had teased him about being lonely and dropped him off at the front door). He wasn't even drunk, just a little pleasantly buzzed from the few beers he'd had. Completely and totally coherent.

He'd made his way to the den after checking on Dublin, felt like playing his guitar for a while before he headed to bed, when he'd seen it. Seen _him_.

There was a boy in his den. There was an honest to God _boy_ in his den, sitting at the piano, trailing his fingers gently over the keys. Cook must have made a noise, done something, because the boy looked up, eyes wide and _huge_ and afraid, and then he'd just... disappeared.

No other word for it. The kid had just fucking _disappeared_.

Cook had stood there like an idiot for what felt like hours, completely frozen, staring at the spot where the boy had been. That image kept replaying in his head, the boy with his head lowered, long, graceful fingers (pianist's fingers, he'd thought numbly) skimming over the keys (not touching, just... resting there). Almost reverent. And then the look on his face, his eyes (hazel, looked like - a dark, warm hazel) wide with fear.

Cook didn't sleep that entire night.

The next day he'd gone to the library, the huge local one just a twenty minute drive from his neighborhood. It was quiet (and early; he'd left at the crack of dawn almost, had to wait a good hour and a half before the library even opened). He was practically the only one there, rushed through the doors and into the periodicals as soon as the tired looking librarian had arrived.

He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, or even how far back he should go. He decided that five years back would be his limit, wished he'd asked Brooke how long ago the last family had moved out.

It'd taken hours, skimming through page after page. The obituaries gave him a dark, squirmy feeling in the pit of his gut. Death dates, cause of death, family members left behind (he couldn't stand to look at the pictures of the deceased for long, usually shining, happy faces of loved ones long before their time). It wasn't until he was looking through the articles from two years ago that he even saw it.

That boy.

It was small, a grainy black and white picture, but Cook knew it, knew this was who he saw. It made him feel numb from his head to his toes, nauseous enough that he had to look away for a minute before he could stomach the sight of his face. The boy looked... happy, a smile stretched across his lips, all dimples and youth and shining eyes. Cook almost had to force himself to read the tiny words printed beneath the snapshot, the bare detailings of the boy's death.

His name was _David_ , for Christ's sake. _David Archuleta, age 17._ He'd died in late August, just a few months shy of his eighteenth birthday. Throat cancer. Cook felt his heart clench as he read through the article, saw the _survived by his mother and father_ , and Jesus, the kid had four siblings (Cook distantly thought that he'd been right, that the house had belonged to a big family).

He didn't know what to do afterward, sitting in the rickety library chair, looking at this boy who was ( _fuck_ ) still in his _house_ (his mind shies away from the word, from _ghost_ and _haunting_ and he thinks _I really am losing my damn mind_ ).

He doesn't know what to do now, either, sitting in his den at the piano, fingers pressing against one ivory key after another. They're clean, now. He'd spent the entire day wiping away the dust and grime, kept a steady stream of music going the whole time, his radio turned up so loud he could barely even think about what he was doing. The piano really is beautiful; free of dirt it shines brilliantly, black and gleaming. The moonlight glints off of its polished surface, the curtains open so that the rays shine over the floor, stretch all the way up the walls.

The notes are crisp and clean; Cook doesn't know how to play any songs, just coaxes little disjointed melodies that don't sound like anything at all out of the keys, stalling.

 _What the fuck are you doing?_ he wonders, feels a shiver coarse down his spine as he glances around the room. He doesn't know if this will work, if anything will happen at all, but...

"...David?"

He hates the way his voice sounds, so fucking meek and scared (and loud; he can't even hear Dublin scrabbling through the house anymore, just him and the tinny clack of piano keys).

He gets no answer.

"David?" This time his voice is stronger, clearer (sounds a hell of a lot calmer than he feels, right now.) "Listen," he starts, keeps his eyes on the keys as he continues to press one at a time. He honestly doesn't know what he'll do if something _doesn't_ happen (he actually feels like he needs _something_ , some little sign that he's not really losing it here). "I don't know what the hell I'm doing right now. I don't know if you're real or if I'm honestly going crazy in this house, but... If you're there, I need you to.... do something. Talk, appear. Fuck, just throw something across the room!" He slams his hands onto the keys, unable to withhold a groan of frustration as the room remains stubbornly silent. He murmurs into his hands, feels so damn _tired_. "Maybe I should just pack up and leave..."

"You don't have to."

Cook jerks so hard he falls off the piano bench, the breath knocked out of him as his back hits the floor. His eyes go wide as he looks up, sees the jean-clad legs, the striped sweater, the short, spiky hair.

He wheezes, "You... You... "

"I'm sorry." The boy ( _David_ , and fuck, this can't, there's no way) reaches out his hand, thinks better of it, seems to draw back into himself. He stands back, bare feet not even making a sound on the wooden floor. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Cook gapes. "Didn't mean to _scare_ me?" he asks, climbing to his feet (nearly trips over himself trying). "I can't even.. What the hell is this?" He's mumbling to himself, not even looking at David, pressing himself back until he's up against the window. His heart's pounding a mile a minute, palms slick and clammy; he wonders vaguely if this is what a panic attack feels like.

"Would you just, _gosh_ , calm down, please?" David's sitting at the piano now, looking at Cook as if he's lost his mind (which he has, he must have, there's just no other explanation for this).

It gets Cook to stop, at least. He takes a few slow, steady breaths, sliding down the wall until he's sitting on the floor. _Breathe,_ he thinks, pulling his legs up until they're pressed against his chest. _Just fucking breathe_. David watches him with wide, haunted eyes (and if Cook looks -really _looks_ \- he can see the faint outline of the piano behind David, _through_ David; he swallows and has to look away).

"So," he says, low and with his face nearly pressed into his knees. "You're David."

"Y-yeah. How did you...?"

"I looked." He lifts his head a little, enough so that he can see David's shocked, stuttered expression. "You lived in this house, didn't you? You... The papers said two years ago you-"

David nods jerkily, hand rubbing uncomfortably at his throat. "...Yeah."

Cook doesn't like the look on his face, that miserably lost expression. "I heard you," he says, trying to draw David's attention away from wherever his thoughts have strayed. "A few nights, now, when you played. I heard you."

David looks down at the piano keys, presses a thin, pale finger to the ivory. "That's how you caught me," he says quietly, looking up at Cook from beneath sooty lashes. "I'm... sorry, about that. I never meant for you to hear me. It's just, I can't stay away from it. I've tried, but."

"Hey, no, it's fine, I-" He trails off, wondering what the hell he's doing, sitting here talking to a, a fucking _ghost_ , Jesus Christ. "I'm not crazy, am I?" he asks, fingers clenching in his jeans. "I mean, you're real, right? You're not some... hallucination or something, are you? I mean, fuck. You _are_ -"

"I'm real." And suddenly David is right there, right in front of him, kneeling there with his palm stretched out , fingers pale and nearly completely transparent. Cook's own hand moves as if its got a mind of its own, reaching out towards David's. Tries to settle against skin, palm to palm, but Cook's fingers slide through air (feels coldcold _cold_ ) like nothing is there at all. David's expression is closed off, resigned. "Well, as real as I can be, like this."

Cook watches as he pulls away, shudders as warm air rushes in to alleviate the coolness of the boy's presence. Can't look away from his skin, the way the light pierces through it. It doesn't seem real, doesn't look any different from his own skin until David turns a certain way, until Cook's actually looking for it.

David's rubbing at his arms, looks distinctly uncomfortable under Cook's scrutiny. He won't meet his eyes. "I... I should go. I'm sorry about... I won't bother you anymore." His body starts to fade, disappearing into thin air (Cook thinks dazedly of mist, evaporating into nothing).

"Wait!" He almost doesn't recognize his own voice, strangled and urgent. He can't explain the sudden desperation that's come rushing into his veins. Doesn't want David to leave. "You... you can stay. You don't have to leave."

"But-" David's barely even there, only a faint outline of his form visible to Cook's eyes. Feels like something is slipping away from him, something important and monumental and tearing free of his fingertips with each passing second.

"This was your house," he says, getting to his feet. Feels light-headed, foggy, like he's struggling through tar. "This was your house before it was ever mine, if it's ever been mine at all. You don't have to leave." The more he talks the more David's form seems to gain strength, the darkness of his hair and the brightness of his hazel eyes more visible by the second. "You can stay."

The chill of David's presence seeps into Cook's bones the closer he gets, until there's nowhere else to go (any nearer and they would overtake each other, and fuck, what would that even feel like to be so unbearably close?)

"You can stay." He doesn't trust himself to say anything else, isn't even sure that this is real, that (no matter what David says), all of this is just some colossal mind fuck, some cruel joke his head is playing on him.

But David takes a breath, a deep (terrified) intake of air, before his lips tilt into a hesitant, painfully hopeful smile.

"Okay."


End file.
